


A Lament For The Dying

by MrTobyWednesday



Category: Spartacus Series (TV)
Genre: Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-12
Updated: 2013-05-12
Packaged: 2017-12-11 15:49:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/800435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrTobyWednesday/pseuds/MrTobyWednesday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Upon the cross, Agron has nothing to do but reflect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Lament For The Dying

**Author's Note:**

> Just an old ficlet I posted on Tumblr about a month ago. Thought I'd upload it here too.

The cross is a cruel reality to Agron, pain and suffering and heartbreak and regret all coalescing as the minutes stretch along into slow-crawling hours. His hands burn and ache, tears are still hot on his face and stinging his swelling eyes and purple-black bruises, and the sun beats down on him as mercilessly as the soldiers had earlier when trying to make him break words.

And, his mind wandering pitifully upon the cross, his thoughts are only of Nasir, and what they could have had, and how foolish he had been to prefer blood and battle to love and calm. He curses himself for choosing what he knew in life over such a small uncertainty that he now knows he would have happily lived with, because maybe he wasn’t raised a shepherd or a tiller of land, but for Nasir’s sake he would have abandoned field of battle and learned to be whatever Nasir needed. He decides he is a fool to have thought that this was to be the better alternative - bracing himself for his slow death while, somewhere, Nasir quietly weeps for him, mourning a passing he would never be sure had come.

Nasir. Oh, Nasir. Thoughts of him bring pain and comfort to Agron all the same. Those dark eyes, bottomless with love and loyalty and strength and sorrow and need, boring holes into Agron’s back when he turned to leave with Crixus and push for Rome -

And he will never wield a sword again. Not for Crixus, not for Spartacus, and certainly not for Nasir. Agron wonders bitterly how he could have possibly reasoned himself into leaving Nasir behind while knowing full well what might lay ahead for himself. Somewhere in himself he is still glad that Nasir was, at least, not suffering the same fate, like he had feared.

But he knows that without sword in hand he is nothing, and without much else to occupy his thoughts he begins to wonder if even being at Nasir’s side could have fixed that. Maybe he could have learned to lead a quiet life as a shepherd or a farmer, free of Rome’s clutches. With Nasir there to love him endlessly and only. Or maybe he would itch for combat, forever dissatisfied with the calm, needing some kind of chaos in his life to make him feel important. And Nasir would in turn be dissatisfied with him - for being restless, or perhaps unworthy.

Suddenly Agron feels as if he might die in this moment. He needs Nasir, needs to be held in his arms and assured that everything will be okay, needs to be lied to. But Nasir is far from him, and he is suffocating - the air is heavy and pushing down on him, the sky crashes and his head splits with pain. His vision goes white, then black, before he can react. He has no idea how much time has passed when he regains his senses, and for a while the world is still spinning.

His hands ache dully now, the feeling in them ebbing gradually away along with his hopes for any sort of future not including his own shameful demise.

His thoughts tumble clumsily in his head. For a few fleeting seconds he is not grieving his life lost with Nasir, but with Duro.

His brother’s death at Roman hands feels like a lifetime ago, and thinking about him now is like losing him a second time. He had failed Duro miserably - his life had been spared from Roman sword in his gut only for him to be crucified instead. Agron wishes he had fallen in battle; even if he had shown flank to the damned boy sharing Crassus’ name, it was still better to die a warrior than to die a prisoner. To die a slave.

He had been injured far worse before, but this pain is different - he is lost to himself, and alone, and a failure to the people he had dared to love. The wounds could heal but his mind would not, even if miraculously given opportunity. He is helpless and exhausted, and being nailed to a cross has utterly shattered him. He realizes he is beyond repair.

They had beaten him and tied him down. Hammered nails into his palms and ensured his value would be forever diminished. Lifted him up and hung him there for all to see; shit east of the Rhine, a common slave, left to perish in the heat waiting for as lowly a death as the Romans could come up with. The life had drained from his eyes as the day went on, but still his heart was beating, weak and powerless and defeated.

Agron’s own screaming, shrill and broken, still rings in his ears.


End file.
